Five minutes. Ten if they got dranks.

Today we got rejected by the Salvation Army. Being a total nerd, I expected the organization to be much like the “Save-A-Soul” mission in Guys and Dolls. However, the surly man who showed up at my door to collect used furniture was sadly not in uniform, and there was nary a bass drum in sight.

Apparently our dresser, which has survived 40 years, 10+ moves, and two different, highly impatient females slamming its drawers, is “not resalable” due to some insignificant cracks in its back cover. Of course, this in no way affects the functionality of said dresser; but perhaps people shopping at the Salvation Army have higher standards than, say, my husband and I? Anyway, while Jeremy and I ponder just how in the hell to get this gigantic piece of antiquity down the stairs and out of our house, I would like to proffer some alternative uses for a piece of 100+ pound, six-foot wide, solid oak furniture:

Ferret high-rise. Everybody knows a wacko with a ferret. Some cash-poor ferret wackos could pool their money together and watch their beloved pets/rodents enjoy communal living. We’re talking nine drawers of urban high jinx here, people!

Barricade during a gunfight. Believe me, if Bonnie and Clyde had had this sucker stashed along that fateful rural road, they’d have had another 50 years of robbing banks in front of them.

Anti-theft system. Don’t trust your deadbolt? Gather twelve of your closest friends together to push the dresser in front of your door! Ain’t nothin’ getting in now! (Note: also, nothing will be getting out. Be sure to have a fire extinguisher at the ready).

Horse coffin. Cut out the middle of this baby and you’ve got a mighty fine place for Mr. Ed to spend eternity.

See? The possibilities are endless! The real tragedy here is the Salvation Army’s lack of imagination (not to mention their lack of marching band. Really, really disappointing. Hey, we ALL know you have bells, at the very least!)

For My Mammaw

I was a little “wine weepy” back in November when I wrote about my Grandma passing—so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I could write for days and not cover it all, anyway.

My Mammaw was 96, and I wouldn’t have been at all shocked to see her surpass 100.

She made the best macaroni and cheese in the world.

When I was little and we’d stay with Mammaw and Pappaw for a week during the summer, dessert was always a small Corningware dish of popcorn (the old-fashioned kind, of course) or PET ice milk.

One time when I was 11 or 12 and in the throes of adolescent sarcasm, I mouthed off to my mother in my Mammaw’s presence. Big mistake. My Mom was making me do the dishes (no dishwasher at Mammaw’s and Pappaw’s…to this day), and Mom said she was letting me do the dishes “out of the goodness of her heart.” I responded with, “There IS no goodness in your heart!” And my Mammaw stood up, wagged her finger at me, and said, “Don’t you talk to her like that, she’s your Mama!” And that was all it took for me to burst into tears, run out the door and hide behind the doghouse (which, looking back, it would have been more apropos if I’d hid IN it) and cry for a half hour or so. But of course she was absolutely right. And I know she would have stuck up for me in the same way if the occasion arose.

She was sassy as hell. She once refused to go to her doctor because she was “in no mood for his cuteness.” And imagine a 96-year old referring to someone as a “butthole.”

Is it any wonder I was crazy about her?

And come off that dumb hillbilly act!

I’m down south this weekend, visiting my parents and helping my Dad (who is currently walking with a cane) prepare for the church’s “Charity Chicken,” which is part of the town’s Memorial Day Weekend “White Squirrel Festival.” (Does it get any more small town than that, I ask?)

I spent this afternoon lugging industrial-sized foodstuffs, raising tents, and crawling in the grass to hammer in stakes. It was me and the “Men of the Church,” meaning me and a bunch of southern senior citizen males. They were forever worrying about my ability to lift heavy objects, which was both kinda charming and REALLY annoying—particularly since I heard several of the Men talking about participating in tomorrow’s Memorial Day parade…as World War II vets. I’d like to think that I can do more heavy lifting than, say, your average 85-year old.

After the church was all prepared, I dropped my parents off at square dancing and drove my daddy’s pickup (a manual, natch) back up the mountain to the house. I was covered in grease and grass stains, and there was banjo music playing through the radio. I think I definitely earned some “Country Girl” cred today…although now I’m sitting down with a glass of Pinot Grigio, watching Jeopardy.

So much for that.

Pimples are the Lord's way of chastising you.

I’ve never been one to have qualms about going to a movie by myself…but I will admit that I had a smidgen of shame when I walked up to the counter all alone yesterday and asked for a ticket to the matinee showing of “The Prom.” In my defense, I had a gift certificate and a need to see something incredibly light and clichéd—plus I’ve always had a thing for teen movies. Still, when the cashier kind of smirked at me, I was glad my face was partially obscured by the hat I was wearing. And then I got annoyed that I felt embarrassed in front of the chick who runs the mid-day, weekday shift at the Regal Cinemas. Who is she to smirk at me? (OK, yes, she has a job and I don’t, but I’m also not swathed in maroon polyester. Perhaps we’ll call it a draw.)

Anyway, after hitting the concession stand (with the same judgmental cashier, I might add), I headed to the theater. (BTW, one matinee ticket, a small popcorn and a small soda? NINETEEN DOLLARS. Thank God for gift certificates). For the first time in my life, I was the only one in a movie. The glee I felt at the notion I could pull out my cell phone and text at any moment (take THAT, “Please be courteous” promos!) was quickly squelched the creepy vibe an empty, mid-day theater apparently emits. But I got over it.

The movie was exactly what I expected, and thus exactly what I wanted. It fulfilled every teen movie cliché (apart from “kids from different groups bond over alcohol/pot”—this is a Disney film, after all). Mostly, though, it just made me feel old. My prom will be fifteen years ago next week—most of the stars of this film were in diapers then. Oy.

Plus, the “bad boy with a heart” had a mother played by none other than 90210’s Emily Valentine (the original 90210, kiddos, not that travesty they show on The CW now). And Emily Valentine has NOT aged well. On the plus side, she seems to have gotten over her mental issues (burning down the homecoming float) and turned into a sensible, hardworking single mother.

I felt slightly placated when The Cranberries’ “Dreams” (a song that very likely played at my prom) started playing at the movie prom. Granted, it was a cover of the song by a band I’d never heard of called “Passion Pit,” but nonetheless, I will cling to that mid-90s reference as I sign that I am not completely past my prime.

Didn't your mother never teach you no manners?

First things first: since we all know that royal weddings are mostly about the clothing (at least for Americans, anyway), here's an in-depth description:

I chose to wear my "I'm a business lover" t-shirt (which was given to me by a former employer who got it for free at a train station), because I had slept in it the night before, and at five-bloody-AM in the morning I had no desire to change. In a nod to tradition and the chilly temperatures, I accessorized with my blue plaid Gap flannel pants. Topping off the look were grimy spectacles and headwear consisting of dirty hair arranged in a "Good God it's early" fashion. And because I recently had a pedicure and my nails are a lovely shade with the non-lovely name "Cajun Shrimp," I went barefoot.

I was planning to watch the wedding coverage on TLC because I love that they had chosen Clinton Kelly and Randy Fenoli as their correspondents (because clearly a royal wedding must be reported on by well-dressed homosexuals), but they weren't constantly showing live footage, and seemed to have pre-recorded a lot, so I switched to NBC, where Matt Lauer apologized for the "Kiss Countdown Clock" to the random Brits they seemed to be interviewing (seriously, was there anyone with a British accent not on TV this morning? Do we need such riveting commentary as, "In Britain, we call soccer 'football'!").

I missed most of the congregational arrivals, but did catch a glimpse of Posh and Becks. Isn't Victoria Beckham supposed to be heavily pregnant by now? She just looked like she has a "cheese baby." And why was she wearing a sprig of licorice on her head?

I also loved the procession of shuttle buses: "Please, obscure royalty, adjust your $500 hats and board the short bus!" Also, they kept describing Kate Middleton's mother's dress as "sky blue." Um, maybe that's sky blue in Britain, but here in America we call that "gray."

I did enjoy the chiming of bells and the trumpet fanfares, and would like to be greeted with same throughout the remainder of my life. I'm glad I didn't get married in Westminster Abbey, though...that's a lot of pressure to walk through a huge church where you could accidentally step on, say, Sir Isaac Newton or Lord Alfred Tennyson.

The vows were surprisingly mainstream, but I had to chuckle: Does anything think "for richer or poorer" will ever really be an issue? The reading was actually the same one that Jeremy and I had at our wedding, although I think the phrase "Do not be haughty," rings a little differently in Westminster Abbey than it does in, say, the First United Methodist Church of Brevard, NC.

Here are a few of my favorite quotes from the "random British correspondents" on the Today Show:

"It's a shame about Sarah Ferguson--I mean, the Crown Prince of Swaziland is here, but the Duchess of York wasn't even invited!"

"Charles and Camilla are a great love story. He's been in love with her for 40 years! She wasn't his first wife, but nevertheless..."

"Later they will have the private reception, where they can 'boogie' or 'funk it up,' or whatever you Americans call it."

And finally...

"We call ourselves a civilized people, but I just saw someone dressed as an otter."


And now, a photo from my royal wedding. Here I am, being waited on by the royal butler. Oh, wait...

You know, I'm getting input here that I'm reading as relatively hostile.

First off, a very happy birthday to my favorite husband today! I have been teasing him about adding his name to the wait list of a nursing home. Of course, if he makes such a comment next year, when I turn the age he is now, I will show him a less pleasant use for a birthday candle not take it as well. Thankfully he is slightly more tolerant than I am.

So my big adventure last week was to show up unannounced at a performance of my old piano teacher. My piano teacher married my clarinet teacher, although when I last saw them they were both married to someone else (scandal!). I thought I would show up and let them see how well I turned out, but I swear I walked into the room and saw them, and was immediately transported back to my teenage awkwardness (the one difference between my teenage awkwardness and my adult awkwardness? I can now hide it better). I remembered that my clarinet teacher had once told me I had "the brain of a squirrel." I don't even know what that means, but of course it has stuck with me. Still, they seem to have remembered me fondly. Plus my piano teacher complimented my shoes, which in my mind translates to "Your footwear is fabulous and thus so are you."

J, Tilly and I have been in SC for the past few days with family. Tilly, being the most neurotic in our little family (and that's saying a lot), is slightly freaked at being in a new place. She needs to know where everyone is at all times, and if she doesn't, she basically won't eat or be still. Plus, the stairs are wood, and she has had to learn that she can't charge up and down them like she does the carpeted stairs at home. After a few slips, she has perfected a technique that's reminiscent of someone with a club foot walking across hot coals.

So what does the upcoming week hold? Well, tomorrow will be dominated by hours in the car and fast food. And Friday I'm just going to have to watch the royal wedding hoopla, if only for fodder for this here blog. I did enjoy this quote from a Briton in The Washington Post:

“You [Americans] had your whole revolution to get rid of them!” bellows Michael Urwin, who owns a pub in central London. “And now you want them! Take them! Just take them!”

I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.

From a webring I was involved with many moons ago:

If you were to form a gang right now, what would it be called? What would it do? What would your personal nickname be? What would you be known to be especially "hard core" at in your gang?

*RECRUITMENT NOTICE*

The High Stringers
Bringing You a 'Type A' Smackdown Since 1978

Feeling superior? Want to impose your rigid personal standards upon the populace at large? The High Stringers are looking for a few good tight-asses to enforce some persnickety criteria upon the poorly-dressed, bad-mannered, inefficient masses erroneously dubbed "humanity." If you lie awake at night planning "Lady, you need a bra!" interventions, spend your time editing personal ads, and become physically ill at the utterance of "supposably," we may be the gang for you. Send all inquires to "Spell Check" Maryment. Submissions must be sent via FedEx no later than 3:34 p.m. Friday afternoon, and must be printed on 11x17 inch, 20 lb. bond, goldenrod paper, single-sided, double-spaced, in 12 pt. Estrangelo Edessa font. Warning: Confuse 'its' and 'it's' at your own risk. Violators will be dragged into the street by "Spell Check" and beaten voraciously with the Hodges' Harbrace Grammar Handbook. Thank you for your interest! Now straighten your tie, clean your glasses, and dispose of this notice in the proper government-approved recycling facility.